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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365948">we are the waiting unknown</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow'>powercrow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Outside of Time, Anxiety, Biting, Brief Mention of Child Disappearance, Bugs &amp; Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Exposition through Dreaming, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Impractical sex, Low Tech, M/M, Magic Gone Wrong, Magically Altered Bodies, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Mention of Captivity, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Preserved in Time, Reference to Past Sexual Partner (brief), Rough Sex, Smoking, Time Shenanigans, Unnegotiated Sexual Encounter, Vaguely Lupine Steve Rogers, Weird Plot Shit, World Weary Bucky Barnes, aftermath of war, fatigue, vague reference to suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:53:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s dreams are the best part of his day. Worth the fatigue, the distraction, the monotony of day to day.</p><p>They’re terrifying, and they’re beautiful, but they’re real, real to Bucky, and he feels real inside of them —he feels terror and joy, sorrow, arousal, all the things he doesn’t, can’t feel during the day. When he wakes, they slip away slowly, leaving vague impressions, and he’s woken up more than once with a hollow feeling under his chest, a feeling of something missing. Those feelings — those are the ones that linger, the feeling that there’s something just out of sight, that someone should be right beside him.</p><p>A story where lost things become found.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we are the waiting unknown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This strange, dreamy little fic is inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastedtea/profile">toastedtea’s</a> beautiful art &lt;3 and written for the 2020 Marvel Reverse Big Bang.</p><p>Thank you to mangoandpersimmon and Zoe_Alden for beta work! Any remaining errors are my own.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>PART ONE</b>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>skyscrapers, stargazers in my head</b></p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>
  <i>Eyes stinging, hot with tears, vision blurring as pain blooms, along his arm, up his shoulder. His lips are moving, words spilling from his mouth in a continuous chain, a plea, a prayer. He can hear screaming, a high and inhuman sound, and he has to fight to not clamp his hands over his ears. The pain in his arm increases, spiraling sharply and he cries out, an involuntary noise ripped from him, leaving his throat raw. He's slipping, slipping, feels the air around him going thick, heavy with potential, pressing in on him  — </i>
</p><p>
The screaming cuts off, pressure around him easing so suddenly his knees buckle, causing him to stagger.
</p><p>

<i>Finally he can take a proper breath, air cutting into his lungs, even sharper when he exhales with a gasp, the ache in his arm only eclipsed by the horrible pain blooming in his chest, hooking under his breast bone and he’s being <b>pulled</b> in a thousand directions at once</i>
</p><p>
<i>He blinks hard, clearing the tears from his eyes. </i>
</p><p>
<i>The last thing he’d seen was wide blue eyes, fluttering shut, feels more than heard an exhaled sigh</i>
</p><p>
<i>Bucky</i></p><p>
Bucky jerks awake, the dulcet tones of Longview stabbing directly into his brain. His hand feels huge, clumsy, <i>Christ he must have fallen asleep on his own arm again</i> and he flails helplessly at his phone, trying to silence it. He drops it twice, once on his own face before he can finally poke at the screen, hit the snooze button. Collapsing back into bed, he lets out a deep breath as blessed silence fills the room. And then winces, as his feeling starts to return to his flesh arm, prickly-pain as the nerves wake up and express their unhappiness with being compressed all night.

</p><p>
Slowly, methodically flexing his fingers, willing the painful, swollen feeling to dissipate sooner, Bucky replays the last minutes of his dream. It'd been mostly nightmarish, what with the screaming and the pain, but that last bit —  </p><p>

That’s a frequent feature of his dreams, and a nice one in contrast to the usually nightmarish qualities — the soft, deep voice that wraps around him, the bright, endless blue that looks straight into him. </p><p>

Bucky hits the snooze button three more times, trying to stay lost in the dream until it dissipates entirely, leaving him yawning and a little cranky, groaning as he drags himself out of bed, ankles and knees creaking as he makes his way to the bathroom. 
</p><p>
The shower takes forever to heat up, and he fidgets while it does, stretching one toe in to test the temperature, stretching his arms overhead until his spine cracks and his left shoulder pops. It’s always a bit cranky, the left shoulder, where the flesh shoulder blade meets the clumsy metal-plastic of his prosthetic. Impatient, he gets in before the water fully warms, gasping as the cool water strikes his face, his chest, the chill shocking him awake. 
</p><p>
He washes up automatically, scrubbing his body, his hair in a perfunctory fashion, the suds slowly circling the drain as he shuts off the water and climbs out. A few swipes at the fogged mirror, and he stares at himself. 
</p><p>
Dark purple smudged under his eyes, creases across his forehead, at the corners of his mouth. Tired, bloodshot eyes that water as he slips in his contacts. He has to blink hard, once, and then again until his vision clears. 
</p><p>
Shaving, he skips, unable to muster the focus needed, and anyways, he’s well on the road to a full beard, can’t remember the last time he took a razor to the mess on his face. 
</p><p>
The rest of his routine is quick — brushing teeth, pulling his damp hair back in a tangled knot.
</p><p>
Laundry is a task he’s put off as well, and it takes a few minutes for him to find something, pulling on wrinkled jeans and a faded red t shirt he has to sniff a couple of times. His clean laundry and his dirty mingled at some point when he wasn’t looking, but it <i>seems</i> in order. 
</p><p>
He’s sorting through socks, trying to find something that kind of matches when he happens to glance at his phone and — 
</p><p>
“Oh! Fuck, <i>fuck fuck fuck</i> — ”
</p><p>
He is late, he is so <i>late</i>. He pulls on the two socks in his hands - blue stripes, and a glittery rainbow sock with a hole in the toe, hops into his sneakers. A quick pat at his pockets - <i>keys</i>, <i>phone</i>, <i>wallet</i> and he’s out the door.
</p><p>
He hustles, for the first couple blocks, squinting in the morning light, and wishing he’d brought his sunglasses. He also wishes that he’d dried his hair a little better, as it slowly drips down his back. 
</p><p>
Bucky’s commute is pretty good — a brisk twenty minute walk, thirty-ish if he takes his time, less if he’s indulgent and springs for a car. 
</p><p>
Either way, his hustle lags after the first few blocks, fatigue returning in a slow wave, and a headache fluttering behind his eyes. When he glances at his phone again, confirms that he won’t make it in time no matter how fast he walks, he embraces his tardiness fully. 
</p><p>
The line at the coffee shop is long, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He lets the intoxicating scent of coffee and sugar waft over him, feels his headache recede a touch in anticipation of the upcoming caffeine while he rocks forward a step at a time. 
</p><p>
At the counter, the barista has dark hair streaked with red, swaying in a precarious heap on her head, dark eyes ringed in eyeliner. Silver rings shine at her ears, in her nose and her lip, and as she passes cups to the bar, Bucky notices her fingers are covered in silver as well, ornate designs wrapping long, slender fingers. 
</p><p>
She’s familiar, though he can’t place her, hasn’t ever been in this particular café that he can recall. 
</p><p>
“...re you having?” Bucky blinks, realizes she’d been talking to him while he’d been staring. He orders, voice rough with disuse. An iced coffee in the largest size possible, and he wills himself to stay focused as the barista rings him up, takes his card, offers him a receipt. It’s difficult, more difficult than it should be, the shine of her jewelry itching something deep in his brain, something he can’t seem to place. 
</p><p>
He leaves quickly after stirring copious amounts of cream and sugar into his coffee, and now he <i>does</i> hurry, walking as quickly as he can without running until he’s right outside the office, and then he pauses a second, catches his breath, and then eases the door open as quietly as he can.
</p><p>
He drifts past the receptionist, into the neat double rows of cubes, and stops. The office is standard issue, like a half a dozen places Bucky has worked over the years — bland shades of gray and industrial grade, stained carpet, and it’s completely empty. 
</p><p>
With a furtive glance around, Bucky installs himself at his own desk, surface almost completely hidden with loose papers, snack wrappers, pens and <i>ugh</i> Bucky makes a face, sweeps up three or four old coffee cups, tipping them into the trash can. 
</p><p>
He has a deeply unpleasant feeling that he’s probably missing a meeting or something, but as far as he’s concerned, the only thing worse than missing entirely is tumbling in late, rumpled, unshaven, vat of clearly store bought coffee in hand. 
</p><p>
Electing instead to start his workday, Bucky slowly sifts through the piles of paper and various debris littering his desk. After, he randomly clicks through the epic amount of email that accumulated just overnight, feeling his brain slowly clear with each sip of cold, sweet coffee. 
</p><p>
His day is slow, routine, a little <i>boring</i>, and once his first cup of coffee wears off, he finds himself yawning again, struggling to keep his eyelids open. Lunch is spent with Natasha, while he eats a random assortment of items scavenged from his desk drawer. Bucky kicks up his feet onto their desk while he sips on his second cup of coffee, slowly sinking into a pleasant stupor. 
</p><p>
Nat’s voice is soothing, low and pleasant, and they’ve got endless stories — about the woman they’re dating (intense, dark haired), their newest client (annoying, demanding), an ongoing argument with their landlord (utterly exhausting). And, he likes Nat’s hair, when he doesn’t look directly at it, spiraling red fire, lighting up everything around it. They never seem impatient with his vagueness, his poor conversation. 
</p><p>
Instead, they push his feet off the desk at the end of the hour, and their laughter is comfortable and warm around his brain while he dabs splattered coffee off his shirt. The network goes down, shortly after lunch, and Bucky leaves, not bothering to restart his computer, half afraid it will come back online before he’s gone.
</p><p>
He avoids Natasha’s knowing gaze, and slips quietly out the door. 

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>

Bucky’s apartment is on the third floor, up several flights of stairs and he has to catch his breath at the top. Once inside, he drifts through the small space, not bothering to turn on the lights. Shoes kicked off at the door, t-shirt flung over the couch, he steps out of his jeans in the entrance to the bedroom and then slowly, slowly, sinks onto his bed, rolls himself into the blankets. 
</p><p>
Stretching out, feeling the cool sheets against his skin, the soft mattress — Bucky practically moans, rubbing his cheek into the pillow. He knows he won’t sleep <i>well</i>, he never does, but his dreams —
</p><p>
Oh, his dreams are the best part of his day, worth the fatigue, the distraction, the monotony of day to day. 
</p><p>
They’re terrifying, and they’re beautiful, but they’re <i>real</i>, real to Bucky, and he feels <i>real</i> inside of them — he feels terror and joy, sorrow, arousal, all the things he doesn’t, <i>can’t</i> feel during the day. He wakes up laughing, or with tears sliding down his cheeks, and sometimes he wakes up aching and hard, reaching out for —
</p><p>
He never remembers them, <i>who</i> — they slip away slowly, leaving vague impressions, and he’s woken up more than once with a hollow feeling under his chest, a feeling of something missing. 
</p><p>
Those feelings — those are the ones that linger, the feeling that there’s something just out of sight, that <i>someone</i> should be right beside him. 
</p><p>
He almost can reach out and touch it, <i>them</i>, whatever, can almost see them, but always, it just — 
</p><p>
Shifts away, leaving him longing. 
</p><p>
Bucky pounds a fist against his mattress, feeling impotent, worn out from being on his guard all day, struggling to stay engaged. He’d had the best of intentions after work today — to cook a meal, maybe run the vacuum, go for a walk but instead — 
</p><p>
Bucky nuzzles his pillow once more, wraps himself tightly in his blankets.
</p><p>
And drifts into sleep, a faint smile curving his lips. He wakes up once, around midnight, stomach growling. Standing over the sink, he eats a hunk of cheese straight from the package, rustles through the cabinets until he finds a package of cookies. They’re a little stale, but he eats them anyways, watching the crumbs collect in the sink before staggering back to bed, falling back into sleep, <i>back into the arms that’d been wrapped around him, the broad, strong chest he’d been resting his head upon, cool sheets tangling around his legs — </i> 
</p><p>
He dreams, on and off for the rest of the night, waking long enough to turn over, find a cool spot on his pillow, before sliding back into sleep. 
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>
Bucky Barnes left his twenties behind a few years ago, and he lives alone in his small third floor walk up. It’s cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, and the landlord is distressingly clumsy, more likely to break things (including himself) than fix them, and so the entire building is slowly sinking into disrepair. The landlord is nice though, never raises the rent, and Bucky feels a little bad for the guy, with his constant accidents, even when he does questionable things like order pizza for the entire building.
</p><p>
<i>That pizza. When the landlord had brought it by, it’d made Bucky terribly dizzy to look at him. His head had spun, to look into the tired, bruised blue eyes, unruly blond hair, and he’d been rude, rushing the guy out the door and slamming it shut, squeezing his eyes closed and breathing deeply until his head had calmed, slowing down. </i></p><p>
 
When he’s not avoiding his landlord, or sneaking out of work, Bucky’s an engineer of sorts, competent if dispassionate at his job. He identifies the goal, the finish line, and then shepherds the project towards said goal, finish line, carefully eradicating any barriers along the way. It’s tedious, seemingly unending work — constantly troubleshooting other people’s projects, pointing out small errors and minor aberrations, the little things that can completely derail a due date, a product launch.

</p><p>
  
He used to be good at it. 

</p><p>
 
Used to, being the operative term. Now, errors slip through, more often than not. He’s spent more than one night up, frantically correcting his work, watching the sun slowly peek over the horizon while he’d checked just one more document, just one more. And one more.

</p><p>
  
Dating — well. That’s another thing he used to do, he used to be good at. Dinner, or drinks out, movies. Bucky had been a charming guy, once, he’s sure. He’d dated plenty, hooked up more, had been confident in his looks before constant fatigue took its toll. The right words, the right clothes, a grin at the right moment and a glance, and he’d have another date, another drink, fingers sliding into his hair, over his dick. 

</p><p>
  
That, too, had slowly become overwhelming. The small talk buzzing in his ears while his mind inevitably wandered. He’d stopped dating, stayed on the apps a while longer. After his last hook up — <i>Christ</i>, how many months had it been?

</p><p>
 
He’d been thinking longingly about bed, how good it would feel to tumble into clean, soft sheets, drift into sleep, <i>he’d had such a good dream that night, he’d been cooking, had seen his own hand, shining, stirring a huge, steaming pot, had heard laughter, deep and warm in his ears, felt lips, gentle, at his throat.

</i></p><p>Bucky had been thinking about all that, thinking about cooking soup, even as he’d been bent over his own goddamn couch, body shaking as his partner that night had thrust into him. He hadn’t come, hadn’t even been able to muster embarrassment about his lack of a hard-on when the guy <i>fuck what even was his name</i> had offered to blow him. Bucky had kissed him goodbye anyways, a brushing glance across a stubbled cheek, an indistinct murmur about texting sometime, had slumped with relief when he’d been able to shut the door, lock it behind him.</p><p>
 
After that, sex had seemed like too much, too complicated, ultimately unappealing. He’d deleted the apps. 
</p><p>
  
Bucky’s tried other things — he’s been to therapy, he’s been to doctors, <i>so many doctors</i>. He’s moved, he’s tried different jobs, different diets, different hobbies. Bucky has learned to knit, to draw, to program. He has lifted weights and run for miles, baked and practiced yoga. 

</p><p>
  
A few things had helped, for a bit. Growing small green things — the small sprouts curling from the dark earth, had centered him for a minute. The MMA class too, learning how to fight, how to take a punch. That, too, had brought him a single, clear moment. 

</p><p>
  
But it’d all dissipated, clarity running through his fingers like sand, leaving him just as tired, just as fuzzy as always. At the end of every day, there’s always something not right, off-center, a sense of removal from his day to day.

</p><p>
  
The week continues, and Bucky continues apace with his usual downhill slide, with Friday feeling further and further away. He’s later and later to work, and a major deadline slips through his fingers. He hyperventilates at his desk for a full three minutes, unsure if he wants to throw up or savor the feeling of adrenaline coursing through him. Natasha catches his mistake, and he has to endure their smug smile, and buy them lunch, a ridiculously expensive burrito bowl with some kind of fancy steak in it and a big lemonade.  

</p><p>
  
Bucky dreams. 

</p><p>
  
He dreams of blue eyes and broad shoulders that he grips with his hands, one shining and one flesh. He dreams of holding a blade in his hands, the burn of muscles in his legs, his back, and of a field filled with flowers, sunshine burning overhead. 

</p><p>
  
His laundry piles up, and he drinks endless cups of coffee and his stubble turns into a legitimate beard. He wanders through a forest, past tree trunks too big to put his arms around, with the scent of damp leaves under his feet. He feels eyes, unseen, watching him, and eases his mouth over hard flesh, and runs his fingers through dark, damp earth all weekend, waking up only to stumble into the bathroom, shove a frozen meal into the microwave before falling back into bed. 

</p><p>
  
On Monday morning, Sam calls him into his office.

</p><p>
  
Bucky shuffles in and stands awkwardly, silently. Sam is — <i>shining</i> this morning, and it’s distracting, the light dazzling off the patterned fabric of his shirt, his glasses. Bucky has to fight to keep his arms at his sides, his hands relaxed, every bit of him aching to reach across the desk, see if the light has a solid feel to it. 

</p><p>
  
He flexes his hands, slowly, breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to keep his eyes on Sam’s face, realizes Sam’s mouth is moving, eyebrows raised in concern. 

</p><p>
  
“...Bucky? Bucky, close the door, we need to talk.” 

</p><p>
  
Sound rushing back, crashing into his ears, and Bucky wonders how long he’s been standing there, how many times Sam called his name while he lurked over his desk. His feet feel heavy, as he goes back over to the door, closes it a little too hard, shuffles back. 

</p><p>
  
He sits when Sam jerks his head towards a chair, leather creaking as he settles into it. The chair is like everything else in Sam’s office - good quality, not new, well cared for. The worn leather is soft under his fingertips, and he can smell the oil used to clean it, cloying in his nose and — 

</p><p>
  
“Barnes! Bucky! Come on, man.” Bucky’s eyes snap back up. Sam is leaning forward over his desk and if he’d looked concerned before, now he looks outright worried. Bucky can feel his face flushing, neck and cheeks going hot, and he’s suddenly, acutely aware of himself, of his rumpled appearance in a way he hasn’t been in — weeks, it’s been weeks. 

</p><p>
  
“Um...uhh, ye..?” Bucky’s voice is harsh with disuse, he stutters over the syllables, and he clears his throat. Starts again. <i>He can’t remember the last time he talked to someone</i>. He sits up straighter, pulls his shoulders back, “Sam, yes.”

</p><p>
  
“Bucky.” Sam moves a few papers on his desk. “Bucky, frankly, I’m worried about you.”

</p><p>
  
Bucky feels ice trickle down his spine, sits up straight. It won’t be the first time he’s lost a job, been fired, but he <i>likes</i> this job, his co-workers, as much as he can like anything, or anyone. 

</p><p>
 
“No, no no, Sam, I mean, <i>yes</i>, I’ve been fucking up, ugh, <i>fuck</i>, sorry, screwing up, lately, but I can do better, I — ”

</p><p>
  
“Bucky, calm down, okay? This is not a firing conversation.” Bucky relaxes infinitesimally. 

</p><p>
  
“Not yet, anyways.” Bucky tenses right back up. “Bucky, I said I was worried about you, and I meant that. You’ve been — ” Sam seems to prevaricate for a minute, makes a silent decision, goes for it. 

</p><p>
  
“You’ve been fucking up, badly. Natasha, some of the other engineers, they’ve been catching your mistakes, covering for you.” He hesitates again, plows forward, “It’s not my place, but, you haven’t used any of your vacation, haven’t used any leave at all. You’re distracted, and honestly, you look unwell. I know I’m your boss — but we’ve been friendly, for years now, and I am <i>worried</i> about you. “

</p><p>
  
He pushes a paper across to Bucky. “You've got at least a few months of leave accrued. I’ve approved you for the next month off. I’ve got people to cover you. I want you to take it, I want you to take more if you need it, I’ll approve it.”

</p><p>
 
“You can say no, of course. But, Bucky, it’s getting to the point, we can’t keep covering for you. I’m not threatening you, we’ll figure out whatever accommodations if they’re needed, but you need to at least make a stab at figuring your shit out, meet us partway.”

</p><p>
  
Bucky touches the paper. His fingers are trembling. “What. What am I going to do. For a whole month?”

</p><p>

Sam’s eyes are kind. “Bucky, go <i>on vacation</i>. Clean up your house, do your laundry, shave your fucking face.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, visit your family, <i>get your shit in order</i>, do not make me fire you!” 

</p><p>

Bucky’s not sure what he says, his mouth moves, making quiet agreements. His hand moves, signing the paperwork Sam shoves at him, the paperwork he should have filed himself to ask for time off. He can feel tears in his eyes, hot and stinging, and he sniffles a few times. Sam pretends not to see, standing at the window, with his back to Bucky while he signs form after form. 

</p><p>
  
When Buck stands to leave, Sam seems lost in thought.. And the light — 

</p><p>
  

It wraps around him, stretches out from his shoulders, glowing, bright and white. Bucky wants to reach out, his fingers ache to <i>touch</i> but instead he clears his throat.

</p><p><i>
 
When Sam turns, his own cheeks are damp, and he murmurs a quiet “Take care of yourself, Buck.” before he ushers Bucky out of his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. 
</i>


</p><p>
 
On the way home, Bucky looks for more shining people, things. Deliberately this time, instead of letting his eyes slide away. He sees bits and pieces, glinting at the corners of his eyes, but nothing he can focus his gaze on, slipping away from like fish in a pond, sliding away with easy grace. 

</p><p>
 
He feels — something, he’s not sure what. A headache from straining his eyes (and probably from dehydration and crying). Shame, distantly, to be sent home from work like a child who’s been bad. He hadn’t gathered his things, though he hadn’t much, just papers and trash, yesterday’s coffee cup, nothing personal. 

</p><p>
  
A little thrill of — anticipation? Something curling in his belly, twining up to the hollow spot, the spot where Bucky thinks most people have a heart, and he has nothing. 

</p><p>
 
Fear, certainly. While work had been a slog, to have nothing stretching in front of him, no routine, nothing to structure his days — 

</p><p>
  
At home, he can’t stop himself, collapses on the bed as soon as he walks in the door. He cries, like the child he’d felt like, overcome with helpless rage and frustration. He cries until he’s hollow again, and then he sleeps.

</p><p>
  
<i>He dreams of endless sky, blue and scattered clouds, and equally blue eyes, ones he can fall into, lose himself in, and the beating of wings around his head, white feathers falling around his feet.</i>

</p><p>
 
When he wakes up that night, he orders pizza, and then he buys a plane ticket. He picks at random, clicking through random travel articles, choosing somewhere that looks green. Green and restful, and because when he rolls over the photos, something in his chest gives a little. 

</p><p>
 
His hand moves over his keyboard on autopilot, keying in his credit card number, again and again.



</p><p>

Booking a flight, a return one. There are some touristy things to do, day trips to try local foods, vouchers for random sightseeing adventures. He books it all and a room in a small bed and breakfast, orders luggage, some books he’s been meaning to read, travel size toiletries. He has no luggage, no bags to speak of, hell, he’d barely had to pack when he’d moved in here.  </p><p>

 

The next morning, Bucky rolls up his sleeves and tackles his laundry, load after load. He vacuums, washes dishes, opens the windows to air out the apartment. He loses steam, midway through the morning and has to take a long nap, waking up midway through the night to pack his luggage in a rush. Rolling t-shirts and sweaters, folding jeans, socks, underwear, sliding his new reading material down the sides. 
</p><p>
  

That morning, he’s locking his door, sitting in a cab, carrying his bag into the airport. The noise and the bustle, the hurry-up-and-wait as he has to toe off his shoes, take off his coat and belt, open his bag; it overwhelms him, a little. 
</p><p>
  
He drinks a cup of coffee, slowly, while he waits for his flight, feet propped up on his bag. The airport is so bright, every surface shining, imminently liminal, and he doesn't see anything, doesn't <i>feel</i> anything at all. 

</p><p>
  
A few hours later, he’s boarding the plane. It’s mostly empty, and he ends up with a window seat, able to tuck his feet up underneath himself. Taxiing down the runway seems to take forever, and then his stomach’s in his throat as they take off; he can’t remember whether he’s ever flown before, though he must have, at some point — 

</p><p>
  
The pressure in his ears builds until it pops, leaving his ears ringing, and he watches, eyes hungry, as the ground falls away. It’s <i>blue</i>, so blue he can’t catch a proper breath, clouds drifting by, and he watches for as long as he can, until they’re blanketed in the white cloud banks. 

</p><p>
  
Bucky falls asleep with his head tipped against the glass, and, for once, he doesn't dream, just slips into unconsciousness, mouth slightly open as he wheezes gently. 
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>PART TWO</b>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>city bound, lost and found</b>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>Bucky arrives in the small town he’d picked on optics alone in the morning. His first flight had been short, and he’d had a long layover after, and then an even longer red-eye. He’d been awake, for most of that last night, inexplicably nervous, leg bouncing as the plane had passed through the dark night sky, descended into bright city lights. </p><p>

It had taken a few more hours to get out of the airport, get a taxi; and by the time he’s dropped off outside of the bed and breakfast, the sun is just starting to peek above the horizon. The air is still, softly gray. Bucky’s in a haze, so tired he can barely keep his eyes open: a deep, bone-weary tiredness. </p><p>

His eyes are blurring as he hands over his identification, his credit card, receives his room keys. The smiling man behind the counter is familiar, looks alert and fresh-faced despite the late hour. Bucky frowns at him, standing too long with his keys in hand, until the man's smile begins to falter. Bucky averts his gaze quickly. He can’t tell if it’s just that he’s tired, that his eyes are blurring with fatigue or — </p><p>

His room is on the second floor down a long hallway, and Bucky doesn’t bother to turn on the lights before falling on the bed. The curtains are pulled, shrouding the room in darkness. He has a vague feeling that he should really check under the bed, around the doors, but as he falls into sleep, his last thought is that he’d fall asleep fighting anything lurking, might as well go peacefully. He dreams anyways.</p><p>
<i>A stinging pain in his throat, gentle lips at his ear</i> </p><p>
<i>Howling in the air, blood and ash on his tongue </i> </p><p>
<i>Blue sickly light, and soft, cruel hands </i> </p><p>

Bucky’s first day of vacation is not particularly relaxing. He wakes up out of a dead sleep, completely disoriented, mind a confused, half remembered blur. Flailing his way out of the blankets, he stands, panting, in the middle of the room. It takes a long time for his pulse to go back down, for him to relax enough to look around the room that’ll be his home for the next month. </p><p>

It’s a good-sized room, decorated comfortably in sunset-bright shades, with soft rugs on the floor and abstract art on the walls. The bed was large and comfortable, a red-orange patterned quilt over crisp white sheets, piles of pillows that Bucky is fairly certain he drooled into. There’s an overstuffed chair in one corner, a mini-fridge and coffee pot in the other. Soft pink shades are pulled closely over the windows.</p><p>

When Bucky enters the bathroom, he lets out a soft exhale of pleasure. There’s the standard bathroom accoutrements, but also a large, clawfoot bathtub, and a pile of soft looking towels, and Bucky is heading for it before he quite realizes what he’s doing, shedding clothing in a trail behind him. </p><p>

The bath is very good, and the water is <i>very</i> hot. He’d hissed as he first got in, slowly sinking first one foot, then the other, then his calves, and finally, had just slid in. He’d enjoyed watching his skin turn pink, the steam curl around him. </p><p>

It’d been very relaxing, right up until he’d felt the bugs run over his face, and he’d gone rocketing out, smacking at his face, his body, desperate to quell the sensation of insects crawling over him.</p><p>

He’d barely been able to dress himself, shoving legs into sweatpants, before he’d been going down the hall bare-chested, a brief impression of spacious halls, black and white photography, and blood-red carpets before he's back at the front desk, the same man smiling innocuously at him.</p><p>

He answers Bucky’s stammered questions with measured patience. <i>Yes there are some bugs in the inn, it’s an old building, and they don't fumigate. The chemicals are so toxic, don’t you know. </i></p><p>

Bucky half listens. He hadn’t noticed, in his prior fatigue, but the man — well, he’s covered in the bugs, he can see them, glowing, shimmering, crawling over him, and around him, and Bucky can barely stand to look at the guy. He accepts the apologies, mentally plans to look for a new place to stay as soon as possible, and escapes back to his room. Bucky mops up the spilled water slowly, tries to hold onto the feeling of hope he’d had, maybe it’s just this place, the manager. </p><p>

The rest of the town though, is nearly as bad. Bucky is constantly jumping, turning, looking to see nothing, and the feeling of familiarity — it’s crushing, overwhelming. No matter how he tries to shake it off, reorient himself, he can’t help but think he’s had <i>this</i> breakfast before, been served by <i>this</i> woman, walked down these very same streets a hundred times before. </p><p>

He even buys eye drops, becoming half convinced that the shimmering that seems to overlay every surface, every person, every creature might just be shifting light, different light conditions in a different place, hell, maybe it’s fucking allergies. </p><p>

Jumpier than ever, he finds he can’t relax, spends hours drinking coffee in the cafe. He starts smoking again, a bad habit he thought he’d left behind, but it calms him down, marginally, and gives him something to do with his hands, which tremble constantly otherwise. He smokes through pack after pack, even as he has a vague sensation, a remembered <i>Bucky, that’s disgusting, take it outside, or better yet, quit.</i>

Nights are worse, newly stressful in a way they’ve never been. Before, his dreams had been frightening sometimes, but mostly joyful, a strange blend of fantasy and domesticity, where he’d been as likely to hold a sword as make a bed. But now they’re terrifying, all the time. He dreams of dark tentacles, squirming out from under his bed, bursting from the closet and twining from the pipes. He dreams of flames consuming the town, and of strange noises and eerie blue light.</p><p>

Despite that, despite waking each morning determined to leave, to book a flight home, Bucky feels strangely drawn to the place, reluctant to leave for all his nerves, his jumpiness and discomfort. 

Because there are moments; moments where it’s beautiful, where Bucky can see past the shimmer, set aside the faint hint of rot, of something gone slightly spoiled. </p><p>

There are moments when rain drums on the roof of the cafe while Bucky chain smokes, when the air is fresh and damp afterwards, and he can hear the sounds of small creatures. Brief flashes of streets lined with trees, and the scent of rich, dark soil. It’s beautiful, and each day, Bucky finds himself waiting just a little longer, thinking <i>maybe tonight, maybe tonight will be better.</i></p><p>

It never is, but hope springs eternal. </p><p>

One morning, a couple of weeks into his stay, Bucky loads up his bag, fills it with sandwiches, a bottle of cold water and fruit, the erstwhile novel he’s still barely a chapter into. He folds his jacket small, carefully fitting into the overfull bag, ignoring how his fingers tremble, the multiple attempts to do up buckles and snaps. </p><p>

Last night had been particularly bad. He’d dreamed again, of his own blade being turned on him, and the voice, the soft, deep one that had always been gentle with him raised in anger and he’d woken, breathing fast, tears on his cheeks and <i>longing</i>, wanting something he can’t even articulate, imagine, and with his shoulder aching like it hasn’t in — </p><p>

Well, longer than he can remember. His shoulder has always seemed to ache, and he absentmindedly massages it, digging his fingers into his upper traps, feeling the thick, knotted muscles.</p><p>

When he’d gone out, passed the front desk, the bugs had been particularly thick, crawling all over the man, and his wife. Bucky had barely been able to be still in the cafe, waiting for his coffee to be poured, unable to look in any one direction for longer than a minute without light sparking at the corners of his eyes, sending a dull throb through his head. The barista is familiar, too, gleaming with a soft silver halo, and the man at the corner — and the — </p><p>

Bucky barely gets his hand wrapped around his coffee before he’s out the door. He wanders for a while, up and down streets, eventually making his way to th epaths that lead to the forest, without really thinking about it. The trees loom, oppressive as they wrap around the peripherary of the small town; Bucky feels very small among them as he enters the forest proper. There’s the same feeling of half-remembered experience that’s plagued him ever since he landed here, but it’s muted, and Bucky begins to calm down slowly. </p><p>

He walks for a long time, enjoying the sound of the birds, the feeling of dirt under his feet, the smell of pine and softly moldering leaves, the gentle ache in his muscles. He walks long enough for his headache, the one that recently started to feel nearly ever-present to ease its vice-like grip.</p><p>

Stopping only long enough to cram his empty coffee cup in his bag, he keeps on, caught up in the routine of regular, reciprocal movement. Gradually, the trees grow larger, thicker, the sound of birdsong falling away. The ground grows rougher — clear dirt paths giving way to overgrown greenery, twigs snapping underfoot. Bucky sees more than one fallen tree, covered in long sheets of moss and fungus as it gently rots into the landscape. </p><p>

The deeper he goes, Bucky begins to feel as though he’s becoming a part of the forest, too, like the earth is coming up to meet him, like the air he’s breathing is shared directly from the trees deep into his lungs. He’s practically hiking now, climbing over logs, pushing through thick undergrowth that’s nearly up to his hips, and, after his bag is snagged over and over again, he takes it off, absentmindedly dropping it under the spreading branches of another massive tree. </p><p>

He continues to climb deeper into the woods, and now — now he’s <i>looking</i> for something. He can feel it, tugging under his sternum, pulling him forward as he stumbles, sliding on moss and — 

The forest grows quieter and quieter around him, until the only sound he hears is his own breath, coming fast and harsh, sweat beading on his forehead, but he’s back on a trail, just a hint of a cleared path that’s so narrow the trees catch at both sides of his jacket, over and over. </p><p>

Now, Bucky has this feeling of inevitability, like if he keeps going long enough the size and the shape of the thing that’s always been too large for him — the thing that keeps him one step away, removed from everything — that it will snap into place, resolving and smoothing out his rough edges. </p><p>
 
And <i>that</i> is what keeps him moving forward, pushing through a stand of slender, incongruously young trees grown close together, moss ringing their bases, and he’s gentle with them, pressing them to the side, avoiding the clusters of bright mushrooms springing from the ground. His face hurts, and when he touches it, he’s surprised to find it scratched, from the thick, oppressive branches earlier, and also — <i>oh.</i></p><p>

He’s even more surprised to find he’s smiling, mouth stretched wide and that ache — is the muscles of his mouth, atrophied and unfamiliar. He feels <i>good</i>, anticipation thrilling in his gut. Bucky gets through the small grove, brushes back some long hanging moss, careful not to get smacked in the face again by a branch. </p><p>

He’s nearly giddy as the forest opens up around him, leaving him in a small glade, moss and grass stretching undisturbed in a soft emerald carpet, and he looks around eagerly, unable to shake the feeling he’s about to see something marvelous, something<i> wonderful.</i>
 </p><p>

And he freezes, mind reeling, mouth falling open with shock, as his brain catches up, fully processing the tableau before him. </p><p>

Large trees, forming a perfect ring, framing what’s easily the largest of them, a truly prehistoric specimen, trunk so enormous Bucky wouldn’t be able to reach his arms around all the way, even with another three or so friends to help him. Dappled light falls golden across the mossy ground, and the sky is a brilliant blue overhead, and he can <i>hear</i> again, the strange silence evaporating in the soft buzz of insects, the occasional croak of a frog.  </p><p>

And. </p><p>

In the very center, is a man. </p><p>

Bucky realizes he’s panting, mouth open, on the verge of hyperventilating, and closes his eyes tight. </p><p>

Breathes in, breathes out. Again: in, and out. </p><p>

Bucky opens his eyes. </p><p>

There’s a man, and he’s trapped in the tree, thick vines and branches wrapping around him, holding him high off the ground. Bucky comes closer, craning his head, captivated. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <span class="small">scene art by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastedtea/profile">toastedtea</a></span>
  </p>
</div><p>

Because this man — he’s alive, but asleep; familiar, and so utterly strange. Even when Bucky closes his eyes he can see him, imprinted against his eyelids, and the headache that had almost vanished before is pushing at the edge of his brain again. </p><p>

The clouds overhead shift, a beam of sunlight falling directly on the man, lighting up his hair, brilliant like spun gold. It sets off the pain in Bucky’s head so it’s pulsing, and he squints as he tries to take it all in, noticing the large, canine ears emerging from the messy strands of hair, pointed and covered in soft-looking gray fur. </p><p>

The man’s chest, broad and strong, is rising and falling; he’s definitely breathing. He’s dressed strangely: a loose white shirt, simple brown pants, and boots, all hidden partially behind narrow vines and thick ones alike, spring-green and dark intertwining. The light shifts again, reflecting off the shining, silver chain overlaying the mess of vines, and Bucky’s gaze flicks up to the man’s face, takes in strong features, a sharp jaw and a nose that has definitely been broken a time or two <i>He’s pressing a cold damp cloth to that nose, seeing blood turn the cloth red, can hear a nasally voice saying — </i> </p><p>

Bucky shrugs it away. He watches the occasional shifting of eyes under closed lids, see a pointed ear flick, broad cheekbones and the man’s mouth. Lips soft, relaxed, and Bucky has the wild desire to press his thumb to the thick bottom lip, to stroke it gently. </p><p>

The clearing dimming slightly, cloud cover drifting in and rapid fire, Bucky takes in a final detail, one that sends ice down his spine, flooding into his gut. </p><p>

And an arrow, sunk into the man’s chest. The fletching is white, innocuous looking, but the shaft is dark wood, pulsing with veins of crimson. It looks <i>alive</i>, feels malevolent in a way that has Bucky’s head screaming, throbbing, vision blurring so badly he can’t see, but his body is moving forward anyways, on autopilot. Forward, closer and closer to the man, and he’d thought he was high up, high in the tree, but they’re nearly of a height, and Bucky’s reaching out and he stops abruptly <i>his hand</i> — </p><p>

Is gleaming, fully metal, like his dreams: bronze, shining silver and gunmetal welded together, fingers flexing smoothly in a way that was never possible even with his best, most expensive prosthetic, after the most painful surgeries. </p><p> 

It’s beautiful. </p><p>

But Bucky’s head is speared with another flash of pain, and he can <i>feel</i> the forest around him, watching, expectant, and he can’t — doesn't want to dwell on a strange hand now so he keeps reaching, wraps his hand around the shaft of the arrow. It pulses in his hand, and <i>fuck</i> he has full sensation, can feel it moving under his hand, how hot it is. It’d have burned him, if he’d grabbed it with his flesh hand. </p><p>

Bucky yanks the arrow out. It disintegrates in his fingers, ash covering his boots, and the ground. The ground seems to lurch underneath him, and the forest <i>screams</i> around him, light blinking out abruptly. </p><p>

Moss shriveling, grass going brown, and the huge tree the man is trapped in — the trunk darkens, smooth vibrant wood going lifeless. Bucky can see the man sinking in, the surface of the tree giving way, softening. Roots, trailing up from the ground, and now the vines wrapping around him — they too are going dark, and Bucky pulls at them, suddenly frantic to release the man, nauseated at the way they seem to pulse and give under his grip. </p><p>

He pulls and pulls, using all the considerable strength of his new arm, his own body weight, but doesn’t get anywhere <i>need an axe, a sword, need something, something with a blade</i> he thinks in a rush and he fumbles his phone from his pocket <i>who the fuck is he going to call no cell reception anyways</i>, and he turns to run, to get back to town maybe, see if he can borrow some tools — </p><p>

He makes it just a few feet when he runs full on into them. The forest has shifted again, seemingly, looks heavier, thicker, more menacing, fog starting to drift in. There’s no sign at all of sunshine now, no birds chirping, and in front of him, where he swears he pushed through soft feathery trees and trailing moss — </p><p>

Bucky feels the cellphone fall from his nerveless fingers. </p><p>

They’re arrayed in front of him, and they’re beautiful. Beautiful, and sharply in focus, and so strange, as strange as the man in the tree. Bucky feels like he’s slipped glasses on for the first time, seeing things slide into focus, clear and bright. </p><p>

Sam — <i>Sam</i> steps forward, holds out his hand, and Bucky puts his own hand forward, distracted again by the metallic, clockwork hand. He keeps it together though, and can’t stop looking, eyes hungry. </p><p>

Sam is taller, broader, his well-tailored suits are nowhere to be seen, and he’s in a snug red polo, instead, well worn jeans and gray sneakers and from his shoulders — </p><p>

Bucky blinks. Enormous, feathery white wings extend from his shoulders, and as Bucky watches, Sam folds them back, neatly, squeezes Bucky’s hand. </p><p>
 
“Welcome back, Buck.” His voice is the same, and so are his eyes, as kind as they’ve ever been. Natasha takes hold of his flesh hand, and they’re different, too: hair moving restlessly around their shoulders, and it’s <i>long</i>, so much longer than it’d been, a rich cacophony of reds and oranges. Their shirt is white and loose, jeans close fitting, faded black and torn at the knees, disappearing into tightly laced boots. </p><p>

There are others — the man from the inn, and his wife, and the ground at their feet moves with a dizzying swarm of insects. The young man, who’d served him coffee, flickering in and out of view, almost vibrating, his hair bright and silver. His landlord, Clint, eyes glowing purple, and more people that he doesn't know, a dizzying array of people with wild features: huge dark eyes without pupils, delicate insect antennae, more wings — fluttering butterfly-like, and sleek like a hawk. A huge blonde man wreathed in lightning, and another with a long, delicate forked tongue and fangs dripping with venom.  </p><p>

Then they let go, and — </p><p>

“You're the barista.” Bucky says blankly. </p><p>

“Yes.” She says, a wry smile twisting her lips. Dark eyes and dark hair, and as Bucky watches, a flicker of red, twisting through her irises and he realizes her hands are glowing, wreathed in red light. </p><p>

Sam’s voice, in his ear. “Bucky, are you ready?” Natasha, less gentle on his other side, “It’s time, James, time for you to wake up.” </p><p>

Bucky feels very unwell. The headache is ripping through him now and sending him swaying. The ground leaping up at him, and he’s dizzy, the forest rotating around him one slow swoop at a time. The only thing that’s keeping him upright is Sam’s hand on one elbow, and Natasha’s on the other. </p><p>

He <i>wants</i> to wake up. He has no idea what’s going on, but if it can be fixed, if <i>he</i> can be fixed — </p><p>

“I. I’m. I’m ready.” He licks his lips, feels how dry they’ve gone, almost sandpaper-rough. </p><p>

“I want to wake up.” </p><p>

It’s a lie; his hands, his arms, his whole body is shaking, but only Nat and Sam would know, and they don’t betray him, just hold him more firmly, their warmth comforting against his sides. </p><p>

And then long, cool fingers gently brush his temples, trailing lightning in their wake that runs him through like a spark, and his body goes stiff, rigid. </p><p>

The forest fades around him, and he falls. </p><p>

He falls, and falls, and <i>falls</i>; his mouth open around a silent scream, but there is nothing and no one to hear him even if he could make any noise, just an endless passge of dark, quiet air and his pulse, racing rabbit-fast in his ears. </p><p>

As he falls, he remembers, memories crashing back into him, one after another, discordant waves crashing on the shore.  </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>PART THREE</b>
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>heads or tails and fairy tales</b>
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>The Hydra was a ghost story.</p><p>

The Hydra was a myth, a tale intended to scare children, to keep them all pliant, in their places. </p><p>

<i>Stay out of the forest, or the Hydra will get you. </i></p><p>

<i>Don’t wander off the trails, or the Hydra will take you.</i></p><p>

<i>Keep the lights on, keep them bright, keep the Hydra away.</i></p><p>

<i>Follow the rules, be good, be orderly, and you will be safe.</i></p><p>

The stories and the warnings had been true. They’d kept to their places, and the Hydra had kept to its place — to the overgrown ponds and the places without light. </p><p> 
 
They’d followed the rules, and they’d been spared. </p><p> 

Mostly, they had been spared. </p><p> 

Someone would occasionally go missing. Parents waking up to an empty bed. On a late night out, not everyone would stagger home. And sometimes, fools got it into their heads to go directly into the forest to <i>search</i> for the Hydra. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div>“Steve, that’s right stupid, even for you.”<p>

“Buck! Come on, it has to be out there. And if it’s out there — ”</p><p>

“If it’s out there, it will <i>not</i> appreciate being bothered.” </p><p>

Bucky had reached out and tapped Steve’s nose, and Steve had winced. His nose had mostly healed up from the break a few weeks ago, but it’s still swollen and tender. Bucky had known that. He’d wanted to remind Steve that even with the <i>changes</i> he’d undergone, he’s still human and all too fragile. </p><p>

Bucky used to be able to forget that, but now — </p><p>

He’d lowered his voice. “I don’t want to marry you, your face all bruised up and beaten to hell. Or worse, stand up with a corpse! And that’s exactly what I’ll get, if you go after the Hydra and it takes offense.” </p><p>
 
“Buck...” Steve’s face had gone pink at the mention of their upcoming nuptials, and he’d capitulated, turning his face up for a kiss. Bucky had given him one, and then one more — at the corner of Steve’s mouth, just under his chin. Steve’s throat had been warm under Bucky’s lips, and he’d giggled when Bucky’s stubble had scratched at him. </p><p>

Bucky had begun to relax, enjoying the little noises Steve had made as Bucky had nipped at his ear and left sharp sucking kisses along his throat. He’d thought about sweet-talking Steve into taking off his shirt. He’d been thinking about skipping that entirely and maybe finishing their day at home when he’d felt Steve tense under him. </p><p>

“But Bucky, if it’s out there — “ </p><p>

“Oh, here we go again.” Bucky had sat up. Steve’s face had been very serious, earnest, and he’d traced his fingers up Bucky’s arm, over his collarbone. </p><p>

“Bucky, you can fight, you can fight like no one else. And I’m strong now, <i>we could do it.</i>”

Bucky’s voice had been gruff when he’d answered, even as he’d felt himself melting under Steve’s touch, softening up like butter left out. </p><p>

“Don’t want to fight anymore, Stevie, you know that.” Bucky’s hands had trembled, and he’d hoped that Steve wouldn’t notice. </p><p>

“Yeah, Buck, I know.” Steve <i>had</i> noticed, but he’d pushed up and gently tackled Bucky back to the ground anyways, rolling him right over. The grass had tickled at Bucky’s ears, and he’d seen the flowers, yellow and orange and red just at the edge of sight. It’d been Bucky’s turn to be kissed, gently on his mouth, over his eyelids, and right on his chin, an apology that Steve hadn’t quite been able to voice. </p><p>

Bucky had accepted it nonetheless. </p><p>

Bucky had been eager to forget about scary stories and fearful memories that lurk in the dark. He’d been eager to hold onto his happiness, to hold onto Steve, and he’d been leery of anything that might take that away. </p><p>

It’d been easy, in the hot sunshine, surrounded by fields of flowers, Steve pressed tight against him. </p><p>

Bucky had been a practical man once, not overly given to superstitions. The Hydra was a ghost story, and he’d firmly believed that, once. </p><p>

He’d believed that, right up until he’d been starting it in the eye.</p><p>

Right until it had come for him. </p><p>

Bucky had been young when he’d gone to war. He’d still been young when he’d come home, <i>is</i> still young for all that he feels about a hundred years old most days.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div>Bucky and Steve had grown up with magic. Everyone had at least a bit, from the time they were born. Enough for small things — lighting a candle, or spinning dust away. Coaxing a plant to grow again or a bruise to lighten sooner.<p>

As people age, as their minds and hearts and bodies change, sometimes they get a touch more. Usually still small, nothing much worth burning the world over. </p><p>

Sam had developed an understanding with birds, and Tony had moved away to a bigger city to better feed his hunger for metal and crackling power, his desire for mechanical things. Mostly people get magic that is nice and helpful, solid and dependable. It can make life a bit easier, put extra food on your table, make your home a little brighter. </p><p>

Mostly.</p><p>

Bucky, well, he’d always been strong and coordinated. He’d been good with his fists, usually in the service of getting Steve out of whatever difficulty he’d gotten himself into. Bucky had taught his sisters, showing them how to curl their little fists and making sure their thumbs were folded properly. He’d taught them to go for the soft bits, for the eyes and ears, and to always run if they could. He’d taught them to scream and yell and had tried to teach Steve the same, with considerably less success on that front. </p><p>

Then, Bucky’s magic came in. </p><p>

And the war had come to their little part of the country. </p><p>

When Bucky’s magic came in — </p><p>

He’d been able to see straight to the heart of a problem — to find the weak spot, the point where something will give way. His impulse was always, <i>always</i> to fix it, to shore it up and make it strong. </p><p>

But the military had wanted him to break things, instead. The weak point in a man’s armor, the fragile spot of bone where death is certain, the tipping point in a supply chain. Bucky, Clint and Natasha had all gone. Natasha with their preternatural quietness, their ability to hide in place despite their flame-bright hair, and Clint with his unerring aim.</p><p>

They’d all been shipped away, and they’d learned to kill and to fight, to stare down death and keep walking towards it anyways. </p><p>

Bucky hadn’t been superstitious, and he hadn’t feared the supernatural, but when he’d gone to war he’d seen <i>things</i> on the battlefield, things his mind couldn’t properly understand. Sinuous dark shapes, just out of the corner of his eye; a foul smell drifting on the breeze. Weird weapons that had glowed with an unnatural blue light, and weirder creatures that had stalked on long frail legs and flickered in and out of sight. </p><p>

Bucky had been scared, stomach churning, and sweat pouring down his forehead, hands trembling. The first time, the second. Hell, he’d been scared right up until he hadn’t been, and that’d come as a surprise. A group of multi-jointed creatures with too many mouths, too many eyes had been closing in around Bucky and Clint, and Bucky had calmly fired right up until his pistol had jammed. And then he’d casually drawn his sword to buy them a little more space, tossing his extra knife to Clint. </p><p> 

In their tent that night, they’d laughed at how Clint had fumbled the catch, but when they’d put the lights out, Bucky had felt sick inside. He’d learned to keep his hands calm and to kill with ease, but it wore on him, and he’d seen glowing blue light, indistinct horrors whenever he’d closed his eyes. </p><p>

And when he’d been captured — </p><p>

That had been even worse. </p><p>

Bucky doesn’t remember much of it, even now. Voices shouting over him, at him. </p><p>

Hunger. He’d been so hungry, all the time, but the food — </p><p>

<i>Can’t trust the food, can’t drink the water.</i> </p><p>

He’d been cold all the time — <i>cold, so cold</i> — and his teeth had chattered like they’d come out of his head. They’d done things to his body, things that Bucky can’t properly remember. A vague sense of needles sliding into his arm, his body seizing, heels drumming, and his head had hurt worse than anything he’d known.</p><p>

Now, when Steve talks about the Hydra, when people whisper about it, when Bucky has to go into the woods, he longs for the days when he’d been able to roll his eyes and dismiss it as so much superstition.</p><p>

Now, Bucky gets those same feelings he got during the war, the <i>fear-sick-shaking hands</i>, and he’d do just about anything to not feel that again. He’d do just about anything to keep Steve, to keep his loved ones from feeling that, seeing what he’d seen. </p><p>

Bucky can’t help but feel — </p><p>

Speak the Hydra’s name enough, and you might welcome it into your house.

And he doesn’t want that in his home. Bucky had learned to stare into fear itself, into death, to face his own Hydra, and to keep walking forward, and, in the end, he’d gotten to come home. </p><p>

He’d come home.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div>Bucky’s been home for a while now, and at first, he feels like he’s gotten it all. He thinks he’s safe, <i>they’re</i> all safe. He thinks that his sacrifices have been enough, and he savors every moment. Lazy mornings in his own bed, and wrapping his arms tightly around Steve’s waist. Dinner with his friends and letters from his family, and his old, familiar work in the armory.<p> 

 He doesn’t notice at first. Doesn’t want to. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore, a slow thing creeping at the edge of his mind.</p><p>

Candles and fires that won’t stay lit — the flames flickering and jumping and dying, the wood spent. Long days with lingering cloud cover, and food that spoils faster. Bucky groans with frustration when the fruit he’d just brought home goes rotten<i>again</i>, and he goes out to see Natasha, who had come home shortly after Bucky. </p><p>

They spend a leisurely afternoon together, mostly eating and drinking and talking about nothing in particular. Natasha’s company is soothing, and Bucky slowly relaxes, until Scott’s newest ale comes up wrong. Each draft fills with a steady stream of drowned insects and the scent of sweet rot hangs heavy and cloying in the pub. Natasha pays, and Bucky raps the counter, feeling unaccountably guilty. “Bad luck, Scott.” </p><p>

Bucky and Natasha leave Scott cursing, and stroll slowly down the street, mood of easy rapport broken and hanging heavy between them. Before they part ways, Natasha hesitates, hands shoved deep in their pockets. They’d been quieter than usual the whole afternoon, wearing their jacket with the collar upturned despite the warmth of the day. Bucky pauses, tipping his head in inquiry, but Natasha just scuffs a toe in the dirt and says nothing. They twist away from Bucky when he bends to kiss their cheek, and he’s left frowning at the bright, waving flag of hair as they walk away. </p><p>

That night, Steve comes in, and the scent of blood hits Bucky’s nose right away. Steve waves him back when he springs up. “‘S’okay Buck, just got bit.” </p><p>

Steve frowns, as he goes to wash up. “Strange, though. Clem’s usually a real sweet dog. Today though —” Steve starts unwrapping the rough bandages. “She was cranky all day. Growling at the pups, barking, and when I went to feed her, she just went for me! Poor pup.”</p><p>

Bucky ignores Steve’s protests, and Steve gives in silently, allowing Bucky to take over cleaning and re-bandaging the wound. It’s deep, but looks clean enough, missing the big nerves and arteries. Still, Bucky’s grateful for Steve’s new constitution, as he finishes wrapping Steve’s hand, drops a kiss on his freshly bandaged palm.</p><p>

That’d been a surprise. When Bucky had left home, he’d kissed Steve goodbye, bending his head low and wrapping his hands around a thin waist, running a thumb over a sharp cheekbone before pulling away reluctantly. Steve had always been a spitfire, too much rage and optimism and sheer cantankerousness wrapped up in a slender, delicate package that Bucky had found endlessly appealing. </p><p>
 
When Bucky had come home, he’d kissed Steve hello, but this time, he’d had to tip his face up and brace himself on a big chest. He’d sputtered, helpless with laughter and disbelief when he’d been hoisted into the air and spun in a circle before being set gently back on his feet. </p><p>

Steve had had barely any magic, but when it had finally come in, it’d been like a summer storm, leaving him a full handspan taller than Bucky, with shoulders nearly twice as broad. Despite that, life hadn’t changed much for Bucky or Steve. </p><p>

Bucky had liked Steve small, and he likes him as he is now. He mostly likes that Steve doesn’t have to struggle so hard just to live, and it’s made him just a bit sweeter, less quick to anger. Otherwise, Steve still works with old Erskine in the kennels. He does the lion’s share of the work now, while Erskine spends his time on the porch, basking in the sun and watching puppies chew his boots. The pups are sweet when they’re small, gray and fuzzy, but they grow quickly into fierce, wolf-like dogs with amber eyes. </p><p>

“Buck — ”</p><p>

Steve’s restless during dinner, dropping his fork, pushing his food around, leg bouncing under the table.</p><p>

“Hmm?” Bucky’s been lost in thought himself. On his way home, he’d had ample time to study the long stretches of field and garden that had divided the forest and the town. It’s shrinking, half the crops lying dead. He’s noticed how much less space there is between their own door and the tree line. It scares him. 
</p><p>

Steve seems to be picking his words carefully. “Bucky, I saw Natasha.” </p><p>

Bucky nods, pays particular attention to cutting his vegetables into neat quarters, while Steve continues on. “They seemed upset.”</p><p>

“Aw, Steve, we just had a weird afternoon.” It’s too much, just enough to set Stevie off, and he takes it up, eagerly.</p><p>

“Yeah Buck, a weird afternoon with beer full of bugs!” </p><p>

“It happens! Scott said so.”</p><p>

“Not that many! Natasha said there were <i>hundreds</i>.”</p><p>

“Nah, not that many.” Bucky still feels uneasy about it though, and he remembers Natasha’s upturned collar. A crawling sensation creeps up his neck, like one of Scott’s insects. </p><p>

“Bucky!” Steve curls his hand into a fist and winces as it pulls at his bandages. “Clem bit me! <i>I know</i> you’re not feeling right, you’ve been quiet for <i>weeks</i> now, Natasha is acting funny, and the dogs — ” He trails off.</p><p>

“What about the dogs?” Steve shakes his head. “They’re <i>spooked</i>, we gotta coax them out of the kennels, and then they hide, scared at every little noise. It’s <i>weird</i>, Bucky, I gotta do something, figure out, somehow.” </p><p>

Bucky drops his fork and rests his head in his hands, feeling boxed in. Steve’s words wash over him, and he can’t seem to quell the panicked feeling rising in his throat. Steve’s just one man, Bucky’s just one man, one <i>scared</i> man, and he’s terrified of what he’ll find if he digs a little deeper. </p><p>

Steve relents, then. He takes Bucky’s plate, and kisses his hair. Leads him gently to bed, and holds him, all while whispering sweet, mumbled nonsense into his ear. Steve reassures him that it will get better, it’s just been a strange, strange summer.</p><p>

That night, the wind whistles past their windows, and the dogs bark and howl endlessly. Steve ends up going out to the kennels after a couple of hours. He doesn’t let Bucky go with him, looks too concerned at the wild look in Bucky’s eyes. Steve grins at Bucky, short and quick, drops another kiss on Bucky’s palm before turning to leave. Bucky wavers for a minute because Steve’s grin had looked sharp in the darkness, canines abnormally long but then he’d blinked and — </p><p>

Bucky ends up standing on the porch, knife clenched in his fist, whole body trembling. He waits for Steve to come back, every sense straining, scanning for any sign of distress. Steve comes back, eventually, none the worse for the wear, some of the dogs with him. He spends the rest of the night petting and soothing, alternating between the soft pups in his care and Bucky.</p><p>

It’s a bad, long night. Bucky goes out in the morning, anyways. He feels scared and frayed at the edges, but he goes out to the forest anyways. </p><p>
  
The forest had always been a dense, heavy presence, a place to be avoided at night as long as Bucky can remember. During the day though — once Bucky wouldn’t hesitate to walk the trails, to hunt or sit under the canopy of leaves on a good solid log. Now, the forest is so thick, he can barely make it through the old trails, and the clearings — </p><p>

Once they’d been sweet places, to sneak away to. To have a secret picnic, to think your own thoughts in peace, to spend hours kissing and touching and talking. Now, the grass is dying, going soft and rotten and sending Bucky’s feet sliding underneath him. The underbrush is wrong too, going pungent with rot instead of a gentle, moldering scent, and moss growing on the wrong side of the trees. That, more than anything else, sends chills down Bucky’s spine. </p><p>

He’d gone armed, but ultimately his expedition had come to nothing. His magic had slipped off and he’d been unable to find the root, the source, had just felt the creeping sensation of being watched. He’d turned frequently, expecting to find something, someone, there, but in the end, he’d gone home empty handed and jaw tight. </p><p>

Steve had stopped pushing him, after that, but Bucky catches him again and again, staring into the forest, frowning, hands clenched in a fist, swaying ever closer until Bucky calls to him, pulls him away. It takes longer and longer for Steve to come back to himself, for his blue eyes to flash bright again. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
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  </p>
</div><p>

Summer fades, and Bucky increasingly begins to feel like he’s back at war, under a slow siege this time, from with an invisible, unknowable enemy, magic bending and twisting around them. </p><p>

Bucky can see the others struggling — Natasha struggling to be seen, to be heard, increasingly fading into the background. They hadn’t been able to hide the scales anymore, tracing a delicate line up their throat, or the way their hair now seems to move around of its own volition. Sam had come over one morning, had closed all the windows before he’d shrugged off his shirt, turning his back to show small, fluttering wings, feathers drifting loose to the ground. </p><p>

Their house sprouts moss, soft and blackish-green, and Bucky had torn it down, burned it. It’d been horrible, emanating a high, thin wail as it had burned, and he’d been glad no one else had been around to hear it. </p><p>

Bucky’s own magic goes into overdrive. Everything, everyone, he looks at, he <i>sees</i> into. Dinner with his family, and he can’t stop staring at the fragile lines of his parent’s relationship, running between them, through his sisters. In the armory, it’s a struggle more and more, to finish things, to leave them whole, not to leave a fatal flaw in a blade, a warp in an arrowhead. </p><p>

Bucky looks into Steve and can see the same lines, feel the temptation to press on those delicate parts, to shatter them. </p><p>

Steve too, is increasingly on edge, temper riding a razorblade, complaining of headaches, rubbing a big hand over his scalp and groaning with frustration. He’s restless, and Bucky stresses over it and worries when Steve wanders, wanting to keep him safe, keep him out of the forest he’s increasingly drawn too.  </p><p>

Steve’s always been protective, but of late he’s gone outright territorial. Worrying when Bucky’s out late, fussing more than usual when he was nightmares, keeping Bucky’s hand clutched tight in his when they go out together. </p><p>

Wanda had smiled at Bucky, offered him some extra bread when their bake had gone wrong again, mold springing up after just a day. </p><p>

Steve hadn’t said anything, at the time, but his jaw had gone tight, clenched hard, and he’d been curt throughout their errands, his hand hot and possessive on the small of Bucky’ back. He’d <i>growled</i> when people had gotten in their way, glaring unnecessarily around at anyone who might want to even <i>look</i> at Bucky wrong. It’d been completely ridiculous, and Bucky had rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be shepherded around. He had accepted Steve’s almost frantic offerings of hot tea when Bucky had shivered a little in the cold, and watched Steve settle under his touch, under Bucky’s gentle fingers through his hair. </p><p>

At home though, that night — Bucky shivers, remembering. </p><p>

Steve had been relentless. The door had barely latched shut before he’d been on Bucky, backing him up against the wall, mouth hot on Bucky’s throat, hands hard on his hips. When Steve had sunk his hand into Bucky’s long hair, wrapping it around his fist, Bucky’s legs had started to shake. His breath had come faster at the look in Steve’s eyes, and he’d slid to the ground, spine stretching in one long, taut line from Steve’s hand. </p><p> 

He’d swayed forward, breath hot over Steve’s groin, and Steve had shuddered all over, fingers clenching tighter in Bucky’s hair. Bucky had undone Steve’s trousers then, hands trembling, heart racing, dick hard enough he was aching and desperate to get his hands, his mouth on Steve.</p><p>

It — wasn’t their usual dynamic, not by a long shot, but Bucky’s brain had left the station just about as soon as Steve had kissed him. </p><p>

All finesse, any coordination Bucky may have had at one point abandoned him. He’d mouthed wetly at Steve’s bare thighs, over the crease of his hip, over his erection, licking at the straining head through the faded, soft fabric ’til Steve had sworn. He’d had a little mercy on Bucky, pushing his drawers down over his hips, one handed and guiding Bucky’s head forward. </p><p>

Bucky’s brain had gone fuzzy, blown out, and all he’d been able to do was keep his mouth open, throat soft, let Steve use him while his own hips had rutted uselessly, desperate for any friction. Bucky’s eyes had watered, filling with tears, and Steve had been blurry against the candlelight. When he’d blinked hard though, stretched them wide open — </p><p> 

<i>fuck</i></p><p>

Steve had been a sight, <i>magnificent</i>, shirt yanked up, skin gleaming with sweat while he’d thrust forward into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’d been greedy for him, hands restless and hungry over the clenched muscles of Steve’s thighs. He’d savored the soft skin over the small of Steve’s back and his ass and the feeling of him thrusting forward into Bucky, filling him. Golden hair shining, eyes hot and possessive as Steve had watched Bucky, watched his lips stretch, his eyes fill with more tears until he’d been choking, throat convulsing. </p><p> 

He’d pulled Bucky off then, crashed to the floor with him, ungraceful, and they’d fucked on the floor, frantic and hurried. </p><p> 

“Nngghh <i>fuck</i> yes Steve, come on.” Bucky had barely recognized his own voice, begging and reedy, and it’d seemed to make Steve short-circuit a little. He’d rubbed against Bucky, more growling moans vibrating in his chest as he’d dropped wet kisses against Bucky’s throat. And Bucky had tried to help, pushing impatiently at his own clothes, tearing at Steve’s, arching up to lick at his chest, his collarbone, scrabbling for some oil. He’d been half thinking that maybe they should slow down a little, do it properly in their bed. </p><p> 

Then Steve had licked a hot stripe up Bucky’s dick, taken it deep into his throat, moaning around it, sloppy and enthusiastic, and Bucky’d found himself urging Steve into position over him, thighs spreading wide over Bucky’s hips.</p><p>

He’d moaned at the feeling of Steve’s ass grinding against him, hips jerking, and then Steve had taken control again, sinking down onto him in one, swift movement. Bucky had howled at the intensity, the suddenness, head banging back against the floor. Steve had laughed, dark and satisfied, even as he’d checked over Bucky’s head protectively, fingers patting through his hair.</p><p>

Bucky’s skull confirmed to be intact, Steve had rolled his hips, again and again, muscle in his thighs, his abs flexing, and the room had gone hot and still, broken only with their moans, their gasps. And Bucky had nearly banged his head a second time, broken cry ripping from his throat as had done <i>something</i> with his hips that sent shocks of pleasure ricocheting through him. Steve had leaned forward to cradle Bucky’s head in his big palms as they’d repositioned, pulling at each other with gentle hands, exchanging breathless kisses. </p><p> 

They’d scooted a few inches, just enough for Bucky to lean back against the door, his feet braced, and when Steve sunk back down on him — he’d been lost in the sensation, the feel of Steve hot around him, his hands gripping Steve’s hips tightly, while Steve had ridden him, hard and fast, lifting up only to slam back down on him. </p><p>

When Steve threw his head back, neck corded, Bucky couldn’t stop watching him, eyes flicking between Steve’s straining muscles, the sweat trickling down his neck, his torso and <i>fuck</i> his dick, hard and red, still damp from Bucky’s mouth.</p><p>

Bucky nearly lost it, when his eyes drifted down further, to where they were joined, his own dick disappearing inside Steve, again and again, slick and hot and so <i>good</i>, his own hips pushing up frantically against Steve, arms wrapping around him only to then roam restlessly up and down Steve’s back, cupping the back of his neck, and down to grip at his ass again. </p><p>

More distantly Bucky was aware of the door banging as their bodies moved together, and Bucky had just enough presence of mind to hope no one came to investigate the racket. And then he forgets about it completely in a rush of pleasure shooting down his spine, belly tight, hands clenching convulsively, sinking deep and Bucky’d gasped then “Fuck, ungh, Stevie, I’m — ” </p><p>

Steve had answered, bouncing faster, clenching hard around him, teeth sharp in Bucky’s throat as he’d bowed forward, “Come on, <i>fuck</i>, yeah, Buck — <i>now</i> ”</p><p>

Bucky came so hard , he’d nearly blacked out, vision going hazy, the hot rush of Steve’s release a second later against his chest, his belly. Afterwards, Steve had been soft and sweet, wrapping himself around Bucky, dropping lazy kisses over his face, his chest, his lips. </p><p>

And Bucky’s still strong enough to hoist Steve up and carry him to bed. When Steve had been small, he’d probably have fought Bucky for doing it. Now, though, he wraps his arms and legs around Bucky, nuzzles his face into his neck.</p><p>

Bucky had to untangle himself long enough to clean them both up. When he’d climbed into bed, Steve had curled around him, a big hand possessive over one hip, face in his shoulder. Steve had whuffed, gently. </p><p>

“...Stevie?”</p><p>

“Mmhh?”</p><p>

“Are you smelling me?”</p><p>

Steve hadn’t answered, had just chuckled sleepily and snuggled closer. Bucky had lain awake, for a long time. Despite the soft fucked out feeling in his head, his limbs, this — </p><p>

This was not normal, for Steve, for <i>them</i>. Sure, they’d fucked, on the sly before, in places they shouldn't have. Furtive, quick couplings in the forest, rushed handjobs in each other’s bedrooms before they’d lived together, sneaking kisses earlier than that. </p><p>


But even before he’d changed, when he’d been a tiny ball of rage and spite, Steve always been gentle with Bucky, and doubly so after Bucky had come home, with new aches and pains, had spent hours kissing him, touching him, making him loose and hazy with desire and comfort. </p><p>

If you’d told Bucky that Steve would push him on the ground, fuck his mouth, and then ride him like a demon, coming with his teeth in Bucky’s throat, he’s not sure he’d have believed it. He’s not sure he believes it <i>now</i>, looking down at Steve. His face is soft, and <i>ugh</i> he’s drooling, just a bit, Bucky’s shoulder becoming unpleasantly damp. </p><p>

Steve looks very young, all the lines etched around his eyes, his forehead smoothed out and mouth open. Bucky can’t quite reconcile it with the man he saw earlier that night. </p><p>

Bucky had finally fallen asleep, the soft wheeze of Steve’s snore in his ears, and he’d had uneasy dreams all night, walls of their home covered in moss, a hard eyed Steve, darkness under their bed. </p><p>

In the morning, things seem brighter, softer. They’d slept late, sun streaking across their bed, warming the room, and Steve had rutted slowly, gently, against Buck, pressing his hard cock against Bucky’s ass, teasing, and Bucky — Bucky’d been sleepy still, hazy, not quite hard but getting there, dick fattening up as he’d pushed back against Steve, fumbling at the drawer of their nightstand. </p><p>

Steve snatched the lube out of his hand, and then — <i>oh</i> it’d been good, it’d been so good. Steve had taken his time, pressing one finger against him, and then a second. His lips had been at Bucky’s throat, like a parody of last night, but this time they’d been soft, licking gently over the bruise he’d left. More soft, sucking kisses up under his ear, his jaw. </p><p>

Bucky had been pressed tight against Steve’s chest, head had lolled back on his shoulder, and all the while Steve had kept working him over, fingers thrusting gently, pressing deeper and deeper into him, the occasional break to stroke Bucky’s cock, and then his own, and then back inside him, until Bucky felt like he would dissolve, fall apart into a haze of shining bits. </p><p>

He’d rolled over, spreading his legs lazily, pressing his chest into the bed. Bucky rubbed his cheek against the sheets, enjoying the feeling of the soft fabric, the floral scent of the dried flowers they keep in the linen chest.</p><p>

He’d felt, rather than seen Steve behind him, felt Steve pull his hips a little higher, felt the head of Steve’s cock press against him. He’d groaned, long and loud as Steve had entered him, slow and sure. He’d rocked a little at first, fully seating himself inside of Bucky and Bucky had groaned at that too, at the feeling of Steve reaching deeper, pressing further into him. </p><p>

And<i> fuck</i> Bucky loves fucking Steve, but nothing like he loves being fucked by him, feeling Steve reach inside him like a key slotting into place, the deliciously full feeling like when he uses his magic to <i>fix</i>. Like Steve is the piece he needs, has always needed to be whole. 
Steve had fucked him, slowly and with such care, long, deep strokes, hands gentle over Bucky’s hips, his back, pressing hot kisses to the knobs of his spine and Bucky had arched at the end, at the feel of Steve’s hand on his cock, the jerk and twitch of Steve inside him and the rush of his release.</p><p>

 After, Steve had collapsed over him and fumbled for Bucky’s hand to entwine their fingers while they’d curled together. Steve snuggled up close against Bucky’s back, and Bucky had curled in a small ball. He — knows what he has to do, had thought of it all last night, before he’d fallen asleep, but in this moment, he feels safe, small, warm, protected by Steve’s bulk.</p><p>

Finally though, he pushes away, stretches and turns to face Steve, looking him over <i>one last time</i> his brain can’t help but supply, <i>so unhelpful</i>. </p><p>

Bucky freezes, fingers going up involuntarily to comb through Steve’s hair, to touch, with trembling fingers. <i>Soft fur, velvety under his fingertips, twitching at Bucky’s light, quick touch.</i> </p><p>

Steve blinks at him, “Buck, what’s wrong?” </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>

  </p>
</div><p>

Bucky had gone after that. He’d made some excuse, they’d needed food, he needed to check in at the armory, he’d be back later. Steve had accepted it without question, Bucky <i>never</i> lied to him. Bucky had left him happily puttering, opening windows to air out the house, bundling the sheets for washing, getting ready to go feed the dogs.</p><p>

Steve had been supremely, strangely unbothered by the large, velvety soft ears on the top of his head, ears just like the dogs he cares for. </p><p>

“Bucky, everyone else has changed, why not me? And these — ” He’d brushed at the ears. “It makes sense. I can — hear them, the dogs.” </p><p>

He’d flushed then “I, uh, heard them last night, <i>felt</i> them.” He’d trailed off, busied himself with finding the broom, and Bucky hadn’t pushed, busied himself with finding his boots. </p><p>


The forest seemed even more oppressive than usual, today. Usually there’s a few steps between their back door and the tree line, but now it’s nearly at their door, and he stumbles over a root, glares at it. As he walks to the armory he grows angrier and angrier.</p><p>

The buildings look disheveled, paint peeling, fading, and there’s that goddamn moss everywhere. The bakery closed weeks ago, Scott’s tavern not far behind. Even the air — Bucky waves his hands, futile. The fog lingers, staying longer each morning, and it stinks today, clinging and moist, thick enough that he can barely see. </p><p>

It’s time. </p><p>

He’s been in a daze, a shroud of fear, allowing it to cloud his judgement, keep him from acting, but Steve’s his weak spot, always has been, and after last night — </p><p>

And this morning.</p><p>

Bucky knows, with a cold certainty, what he needs to do:. The Hydra has come for him, again. Tentacles, sliding into his own home, his own town, into the mind and body of his own love, waiting for him to come back. </p><p>

It’s not too late, he doesn’t think.</p><p>

The chill returns to him, gradually. He’s been a warm, soft thing since he came home, but in the armory, slipping knives into his clothing, testing a longer blade, he feels himself go cold. The other Bucky, the one deep inside him, who’d gotten him through the war, wakes up and wraps around his bones, his soft flesh. </p><p>

Bucky pulls on higher, tougher boots. He doesn’t have much in the way of metal armor, but has a set of made from boiled leather, so he pulls that on as well. He braids his hair back, tight and severe. The pistols are unreliable, but he takes them anyway, filling his pockets with bullets. Crossbow slung across his back, just in case, along with a quiver chock-full of arrows. </p><p>

When he leaves, he feels weightless, drifting like a ghost through the fog.</p><p>

The fog is even heavier in the forest, and it feels thick with the miasma that’s been growing unabated. Bucky can feel the damp cling to him. When he breathes, it feels wet, the feeling of something foul in his lungs, and he doesn’t know how he could’ve ignored it for so long. </p><p>

The deeper he goes, the more <i>wrong</i> it feels, the fog wrapping trees that are blackened and bloated. The moss has gotten so thick it’s sluicing off the trees, soft and rotten, and the ground is spongy beneath his feet. </p><p>

Bucky walks deeper and deeper into the forest, fingers clenched tight around a knife until suddenly, he’s in a clearing, the fog thinning <i>just</i> enough — </p><p>

Bucky sucks in a breath, his nerves jangling, and he stalks forward. </p><p>

Stalks towards the Hydra. It’s — </p><p>

Repulsive, tentacles writhing thickly, countless eyes flickering, glowing blue, as blue as he’d seen on the front lines, and the odor — Bucky gags softly at the sweet stench of rot. </p><p>

The beast screams, a high, inhuman sound, and it <i>moves</i>, tentacles snaking towards him, and Bucky shoves himself down. Shoves down his worries, his fears, his revulsion, and lets his magic flow over him. The Hydra is impossibly strong, impossibly resilient, but there are still soft spots in it’s thick scaly skin and eyes that don’t focus as well as the others, and Bucky <i>moves</i>. Quickly and decisively, his knives flashing, until he’s too close, in too deep, surrounded by writhing, blackened flesh, and he pulls his sword free with a squelch and then — </p><p>

There are more bodies around him, humanoid, slipping between the trees, and those too, are familiar, the beings he’s faced before, with legs that are too long, limbs with too many joints. They move awkwardly, much too fast on their stalk-like limbs and their long blades drip with a sick, glowing light. </p><p>

The whispers start, after. </p><p>

Sibilant and harsh against his ears, and Bucky can feel the sound scrape across him like sandpaper. When he wipes at his nose, his hand comes away red with blood and this, too, is familiar; his eyes watering, stinging. </p><p>

<i>Come, come back to us</i></p><p>

<i>Come to us</i></p><p>

<i>You belong, you belong with us</i></p><p>

<i>Bucky, come, come, come, take your place</i></p><p>

Horribly, Bucky can feel them, can feel them pulling, calling to him, and in a flash, he remembers, remembers how the sting of the injections, the days after, where he’d been alternatively weak, then ravenous, how his magic had ramped up, how he’d seen beyond and into things, people.</p><p>

How strong he’d been. Unbidden, the night before comes to mind. How easily he’d lifted Steve from the floor, Steve who outweighs him now by a good fifty pounds at least.</p><p>

And — </p><p>

His fingers fumble at his neck, where Steve had bitten deep, teeth gone sharp, and <i>fuck</i> why hadn’t that bothered him more at the time?</p><p>

Steve's teeth had been sharp, canines cutting deeply into him, and Bucky had moaned for more, but today he’s only bruised, barely a hint of the damage that’d been done, the blood that had been drawn. </p><p>

Bucky pushes it aside, pushes down it all down. They’re calling to him, pulling at him, but he has no desire to to go, to give in to them. His fault lines do not lie that way. </p><p>

His fault lines are blonde, with snapping blue eyes and, now, with razor sharp teeth, soft silly ears. </p><p>

He lets his body take over the fight. There seems to be an infinite number of the wraithlike creatures, more springing up for each one he cuts down. He scrambles up a tree, branches creaking ominously, and perches, using his pistol, then his crossbow to fell soldiers in quick succession. He jumps free when the tree is finally toppled, rolling neatly on the ground and springing back up, his knife in hand. </p><p>

His body is aching, and he’s bleeding from a half a dozen wounds and more; he’s had to hack his way free from the tentacles sprouting from below more than once, and the wraiths don’t stop coming at him. They snap into view out of the fog, and when he cuts them down they melt away back into it, weapons lying discarded for Bucky to snatch up. He uses them until they too, melt away; an axe dissolving in his hands, a crossbow dissipating with a clean <i>snap</i>. </p><p>

Finally, he gets a moment to pause and pant for breath, bending to rest his hands on his thighs. He’s preternaturally strong, fast, with more energy than most, but, still, he’s exhausted. His legs are trembling, hard enough that he doesn’t notice, at first, the ground shaking underfoot, the fog lifting around him in great, swirling masses. Bucky pushes upright, his mouth dropping open as he sees it fully for the first time. </p><p>

The Hydra.</p><p>

The small bit he’d glimpsed earlier had been nothing, compared with what he sees now. It’s massive, towering into the sky: an indistinct, writhing blur against the dark tree line, disappearing back into the thick gray fog. He tries to focus on it, and each time, it shifts, skipping back to t he corners of his vision. </p><p>

It’s tentacles are horrible and varied — rippled with suckers and open, gaping mouths, all lined with razor sharp teeth. The eyes are just as eerie — scattered seemingly without care, on tentacles and oily skin alike in clusters, and they all glow blue, vivid against writhing red veins. </p><p>

It moves fast, obscenely so, and Bucky has barely half a second to unsheathe his sword, <i>he still has that, thankfully</i>, and it’s — </p><p>

<i>The war again, advancing on endless armies, armies designed to ramp up fear, feast on it, armed beyond imagination</i></p><p>

<i>Steve, with his razor sharp teeth</i></p><p>

<i>His home, swamped in fog and moss, fear in the air and mold in the food </i></p><p>

Bucky raises his sword, feels his heart slow, one beat, then the next, loud in his ears, and his fatigue is gone, his body strong again, as he runs, runs to meet this creature that will take everything from him and look for more, insatiable. </p><p>

Too late, he sees him.</p><p>

Steve, bursting from the trees, a knife, held clumsily in his fist and Bucky has long enough to regret that his efforts to teach Steve to fight properly had never been much good. </p><p>

Bucky diverts his course, heading for Steve, but he’s too late. One of the wraiths coalesces besides Steve. Steve, who turns with a snarl, stabbing hard, and <i>fuck</i> his teeth truly are terrifying, the soft gray ears laid back, and Steve seems enormous, the wraith giving way easily before him. </p><p>

But there’s another, and another, and then, behind Steve, a long, double jointed arm, a slender arrow, <i>one of Bucky’s, lying discarded</i>, and in the hand it <i>shifts</i>, fletching turning black, red veins pulsing, something viscous dripping from the head of the arrow. It’s an instant but it seems forever and Bucky opens his mouth to scream but the ground goes soft, a tentacle wrapping around his ankle, going taut and a strangled sound is all that emerges from Bucky’s throat.</p><p>

Another tentacle is wrapping around his sword, and he yanks hard, but the sword breaks, blade snapping off the pommel in his hand and Bucky’s left struggling, useless. There’s a sudden, horrible pain blooming in his arm, and it goes limp, hanging at his side, and all Bucky can do is watch. </p><p>

Watch as the arrow descends, stabbing deep into Steve’s chest and Steve <i>screams</i> high and desperate, and his hands scrabble helplessly, and they’re tipped with claws, tearing at his own flesh, but he’s —</p><p>

He’s going limp, tentacles wrapping around him, entwining his limbs, his throat, head lolling while he’s carried, carried up high and Bucky manages to gets free, and he’s running, running as fast as he can but he’s got no weapons, got nothing else. He can see that Steve’s chest is still rising and falling, even as his eyes flutter, flying open when he hears Bucky’s scream, </p><p>

“<i>Steve</i>!”</p><p>

Bucky looks frantically, for a weapon, for something, for a way to climb the tentacles, while, incredibly, Steve smiles down at him. And Bucky can tell, he’s punch drunk on something, probably that substance on the arrow, his eyes are blue, so blue, a narrow strip around dilated pupils.</p><p>

He smiles at Bucky, big and bright, teeth stained red, but his voice is soft, eyes soft.</p><p>

“Hey, Buck.” and despite himself, Bucky laughs a little, wet with tears. His last clash with the Hydra damaged him, he can feel the copper in his mouth, knows his own grin is just as red, that there is something horribly, horribly wrong with his arm, because it doesn’t hurt, really, at all.  </p><p>

“Hey, Stevie.”</p><p>

“You — ” and Steve’s eyes are fluttering now, drifting closed, and he groans, as the tentacles shift, hold him tighter, lift him higher.</p><p>

“Left me — ” </p><p>

Bucky’s crying, properly now, tears hot on his cheeks and he’s begging, pleading, words in a tumbled rush that make no sense, begging Steve to keep his eyes open, to keep fighting, cursing the Hydra, the Hydra which now seems to be growing bigger by the minute, tentacles rising from between every tree and up from the ground, skin too slick to climb and Bucky’s dumped to the ground, yet again, finds a single, small knife, tucked close in his boot and he springs up, stabbing, screaming. </p><p>

And then, the Hydra surges, body pulsing, blue light erupting from it and the pressure is incredible, stabbing sharp in his ears, eyes bulging and Bucky’s sure he’s going to die here, in this moment, watching Steve be carried off.</p><p>

And the ground goes boggy under his feet, and then fully liquid, and Bucky’s sinking, up to his waist then deeper, into fetid, dank water. A stream of bubbles run to the surface as it closes over his head, tentacles wrapping tight around his ankles, water rushing in, up his nose and it’s freezing, frosty chips of ice forming, bumping up against him. </p><p>

And the cold part of him is gone now, completely, and it’s just him, alone; Bucky screaming while the water fills his mouth, trickles down his lungs, and the water goes clear around him, clear from the tears streaming from his eyes, until they go wide and unseeing and he’s so, so cold, and sinking, sinking, sinking</p><p>
    <b></b></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>PART FOUR</b>
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>forget me nots, second thoughts</b>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>Bucky’s eyes snap open. He’s lying on the forest floor, flat on his back, and it’s all he can do to roll over, push up weakly on his hands and knees. He vomits, once, then again and it’s — 
</p><p>

Bracken, dark murky water, and he coughs and chokes, water streaming from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. He can feel a hand on his back, soothing, rubbing, patting until finally, he can sit back on his heels, look around at these people. 
</p><p>

His friends. 
</p><p>

He knows them now, and in the next second he bows over, like he’s been punched in the gut, and he’s leaking again, but tears, proper this time. 

He cries like a child, heartsick, great gulping gasps because <i>he’d forgotten.</i>
</p><p>
Forgotten them all, forgotten his family, his friends, the people he’d spent every day with, worked with, gone to war with. 
</p><p>
Forgotten his life, oh shit, <i>fuck</i>, he lunges forward, vomiting again <i>forgotten the fucking love of his life, left him wrapped up, taken by a monster.</i>
</p><p>
The gentle hand on his back goes firm, gripping his shoulder, and Bucky sits back again, shakily, wiping his mouth.
</p><p>
Natasha squats in front of him. They look different, his impressions altered now by their shared — he’s not sure what to call it. Past life? Current? <i>When</i> even is he? 
</p><p>

His vision merges, snaps, and he can see hints of both — the Natasha with sharp tailored trousers and perfect eyeliner, who’d liked extra steak in their burrito bowls and extra sugar in their coffee, with the Natasha he’d known, that he’d crept through the underbrush with, cried with after his first kill, who'd had his back and had shielded him with their magic. 
</p><p>

That Natasha is here, too: he can see the scales, red-orange-yellow, wrapping up their throat, over one arm, how their hair moves restlessly. But their eyes, those are the same; pale blue, filled with wry affection. </p><p>

“James.” they say, and that too is the same, the soothing, husky rasp. 
</p><p>
“James, I know this has been a lot.” Bucky snorts, because describing <i>everything</i> he has gone through so mildly is a wild understatement if he’s ever heard it. 
</p><p>

“But.” And their voice goes hard, and he remembers that voice, right before a mission, before Natasha had pushed him into confession to Steve, when they’d cut down a client who’d failed to pay. </p><p> 

“The Hydra is not gone, it’s merely been in — stasis, like the rest of us. And with you here, your memories recovered, all of us together again — ” </p><p>

Bucky swallows convulsively, throat gone dry. He cuts in, certain. “It's going to wake up.” </p><p>

Natasha nods, claps him on the shoulder, and then Sam is there, helping him up. Sam hesitates, a minute, and then he opens his arms, waits for Bucky to come forward, catching him in a quick, hard hug. Sam mutters in his ear “Sorry Buck, I’m so sorry, we — ”
</p><p>

He steps back. “We couldn’t really interfere, we’d tried, before, to make you remember sooner.” He winces “It didn’t go well.” 
</p><p>
It triggers something in Bucky’s mind, a wisp floating along his synapses — himself, spiraling worse than he had been a short week ago, himself in the woods, sinking into a lake, a dozen lifetimes of frustration, of passing through life without being truly of it.
</p><p>
And he nods, understanding. “It — it’s okay. I. I didn’t know, anyways.” 
</p><p>
Sam nods back, but his eyes are still sad, and Bucky can’t imagine what it must have been like, for all of them, to watch him, stumbling along, not understanding, not knowing. 
</p><p>
“No wonder I was so fucking miserable, all the time.” He laughs shortly. “I tried so many things, Sam, I was — ”
</p><p>
“Bucky, there’s plenty we need to talk about, and I don’t want to downplay that but —”
</p><p>
The ground shakes below their feet, an imperceptible tremor at first, which grows, and grows, Wanda lurching forward, grabbing at Clint’s shoulder to stabilize herself.
</p><p>
And then they’re all business, as the fog begins to roll in, and Bucky’s sense of déjà vu is incredible. 
</p><p>
There are differences, though. His arm, and <i>oh</i> he remembers losing that, now, remembers it being replaced, with the shining, metallic clockwork one he has now, shifting seamlessly in perfect synchronicity with his flesh one. It doesn't hurt, at all, merges seamlessly into his shoulder, and he now that he knows, he can <i>feel</i> his magic working on it, making miniscule adjustments as he moves.</p><p>

There's suddenly a sword in his hand though, and Nat manhandles him roughly, slipping knives into his clothing, hanging a rifle over his shoulder. </p><p>


Everyone else is preparing as well, bristling with weapons and glowing with magic, incongruous in their street clothes, jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, but Bucky can imagine that the timing of this kind of thing isn’t exactly easy to predict, or to prepare for. </p><p>

They have some armor, rough and padded, that they all strap to each other, and by that time, the fog is thick, wrapping around their legs. </p><p>

Glowing blue light in the distance, bouncing, coming ever closer. </p><p>

A foul smell on the wind.</p><p>
 
Shaky dark forms, staggering through the trees, tentacles twining between tree roots. </p><p>

And a collective shaky breath in, an exhale, and then Bucky is running, running with everyone else and he’d struggled, earlier this week to make it to his third floor walk up, but now his feet fly, confident and sure and his breath comes easy. </p><p>

They’re among the wraiths, suddenly. And Bucky’s sword is ringing free without a conscious thought and he’s swinging it, around his head and down, cutting close across his body, lunging out and away, sword spinning in his grip so quickly he can barely see it, feet sure over the soft ground. </p><p>

Otherwise, the battle is a blur, mostly. </p><p>

He clears his area, gets up high, and then it’s familiar again, aiming, sighting, his magic pulling at him, showing the weak spots, the points to push, and with his friends —</p><p>

The points to shore up, to protect. </p><p>

The whispering is back <i>come come come</i> in his ears, a trickle of blood running down over his lip, but it’s easy to push away, ignore. </p><p>

He watches, when he has a moment. </p><p>

Sam, flying high above, coming in fast to knock weapons clear, taking wraiths to the ground, incapacitating them with kicks and punches and the quick flash of a knife, and then soaring back up to pick them off from above. </p><p>

Wanda, red fire, lashing against blue, pushing it back, causing it to break, to snap into glittering, ineffective shards. </p><p>

And more, arrows and bullets flying, and endless streams of insects, destroying weaponry and swarming tentacles, blocking eye sockets. </p><p>

Nat, melting out of the fog with a well aimed twist of their hands, a flash of a knife before they disappear again. </p><p>

Slowly, the wraiths disappear. Bucky remembers fighting for hours before. This had taken considerably less time. </p><p>
The fog begins to retreat, and again, with the echoed memory thrilling along his nerves, everyone regroups, centers themselves on the Hydra, no longer shielded. The wind picks up, screaming, an unearthly, hair-raising sound. </p><p>

Path clear, Bucky races to Steve, as quickly as he can, desperate to free him. </p><p>

Sam had been sure the Hydra was feeding on Steve, using him to grow more powerful, and Bucky certainly can’t contest that it had made short work of him once it’d taken Steve <i>however many years ago.</i> </p><p>

He can’t think of that now though, he has to focus, focus on getting Steve clear. Bucky’s able to crush the chain with his metal arm, pull it free with a creaking groan, and then he focuses on the tentacles that wrap the tree, swinging his sword with hard quick slashes down below Steve’s legs. </p><p>

The wind accelerates, shrieking, and Bucky’s hair comes loose, whipping around his face. He climbs up on some of the tentacles, heedless of how they cut and slice at him. Bucky goes to work with a smaller knife, working more carefully now, trying to use his metal hand as much as he can to pry them off Steve. And slowly, slowly, as he gets the tentacles free — </p><p>  
Steve starts to stir, eyes fluttering and then Bucky goes even more slowly, despite the voice in his head urging him to <i>hurry, hurry, rip him free and get away</i>. He cuts and cuts, pausing from time to time to menace other tentacles away, to pat at Steve’s face. He’s talking as he goes, a blend of curses and soothing nothings. 
 
“Fuck, fuck, you, get <i>off</i>, get off of him, oh Steve, sweetheart, open your eyes, I’ve got you, I’ve. Christ, you <i>fucker</i>.” 

And then, the last tendrils are coming free and Steve’s falling forward into his arms, and the thick trunk is shuddering, disintegrating. The fog is gone, fully, and Bucky can see the true size of the Hydra, <i>he’d forgotten</i></p><p>
 

They barely hit the ground before Bucky is pulling Steve up, holding him bodily. 

</p><p>
 

He can see Sam soaring overhead, the glow of a dozen different magics, and he blinks, hard against the tears in his eyes, the voices screaming in his ears, and, the Hydra is definitely, markedly smaller, slower, bleeding in a half a dozen places and now, instead of sprouting new tentacles, they're smoking, falling to the ground, collapsing into char. 
</p><p>
  

Bucky drags Steve clear, starts patting at him again, heedless of the blood and other gore covering him, shaking him gently, keeping on guard, and he can see, acutely <i>feel</i> the fault lines of the Hydra so clearly now, can see that its defeat is inevitable. One eye on Steve, one eye on the Hydra, he <i>pushes</i> his magic, whatever he has, clumsily willing it to break, to <i>shatter</i>.
</p><p>
 

“Steve? Stevie, Steve, come on, come on, please, you gotta get up, you gotta wake up.” Bucky breaks off, yanking up a tentacle from the ground, crushing it in his metal grip, and then turning to seize two more. Occupied thus, he misses the final moments. 
</p><p>
  

Sam, diving from impossibly high, right into the weak heart of the Hydra, the largest of the fault lines. The slow implosion, Wanda’s magic running through it hot and bright. Natasha, long, bright sword in their capable grip, shearing tentacles, always a step ahead, clearing the way for the rest. 
</p><p>
  

The Hydra dies slowly, igniting, falling apart in smoldering chunks. Roots shriveling, eyes closing, bladed teeth falling free. 
</p><p>


Bucky sees none of it, focus completely on Steve once he’d felt the Hydra’s death knells. 
</p><p>


Steve’s breathing still, chest rising and falling, and he’s stirring, limbs twitching, but he doesn’t rouse, even when Buck’s voice rises, when he shakes him. Finally, Bucky stops. His hair falls forward and he pushes at it impatiently, getting it out of his eyes. Vision clear, he leans in. 
</p><p>


The faint wail of the Hydra, and the smell of blood fade into the background, and Bucky takes in Steve’s features, beloved and forgotten and new again. 
</p><p>
  

Eyes still closed, faintly bruised, long lashes lying nearly on his cheeks. Bucky traces them delicately, lets his fingers trail over a cheekbone, down to his chin.
</p><p>
  

He’s fully absorbed now, ruffles Steve’s hair, <i>always such a mess</i>, strokes the velvety soft ears, Steve’s nose. He remembers now, the last time he’d broken it, what a bruised, swollen mess it had been. 
He remembers Steve’s lips now, too. Usually so busy, talking or yelling, laughing, pursed in irritation or — 
</p><p>
  
Bucky feels his cheeks heat and he can’t stop himself, can’t keep from running his thumb over the full lower lip, soft and pliant and Bucky hadn’t had a real plan in place for this scenario. He hadn’t been sure if he was gonna slap Steve, maybe dunk him in water, shake him silly and yell to wake him up, get him on his feet. 
</p><p>
  

Instead, he finds himself leaning in, eyes drifting closed.
</p><p>
  

And he kisses Steve, carefully fitting his mouth to Steve’s in a chaste, soft kiss. 
</p><p>
  

He can feel stubble, under his cheek, and Steve’s lips are cool, soft, and the world — 
</p><p>
 

Falls away around them. And it’d started as a delicate press of lips, but Bucky can’t stop, easing his lips over Steve’s, again and again, nipping lightly at his lower lip, hungry for the slightest hint of response, the faint breath through Steve’ parted lips. 
</p><p>


Bucky tastes salt, salt and copper, tears and blood and he sobs into Steve’s mouth, desperate with fear, pulse racing, and he pulls back, <i>nothing still</i> and then he slams his mouth down on Steve’s. He’s kissing him properly now, lips moving frantically, and he’s pulled Steve up against him. Bucky’s whole body is shaking like a leaf, reverberating against Steve and then — 
</p><p>
  

A breath.
</p><p>
  

 A gasp.
</p><p>
  

And Bucky doesn’t dare open his eyes, but Steve’s lips are warming under his, kissing him back. Steve’s tongue traces his lips delicately until Bucky softens his mouth, lets their breath mingle, warm and intoxicating. Bucky can feel his lips tingling, pulse racing and then there are arms twining around his neck, pulling him closer. When Bucky’s eyes fly open, he’s lost immediately in blue, warm and bright and as unlike the eerie blue glow of the Hydra as anything. 
</p><p>
  

Bucky lifts his head just a fraction, can feel Steve’s lips curving against his own, in a smile, a promise, a soft exhale. 
</p><p>
  

“Oh, Bucky — love you.” Steve sounds a little befuddled, and sweet with it. 
</p><p>
  
He frowns, and pats at Bucky’s bearded cheek. “This is new, ‘s nice.” Bucky giggles, a wet, slightly hysterical sound, and Steve frowns harder at him, brow furrowing. “‘m tired, Buck.” Primly, as though Bucky is personally responsible for chaos around them.  
</p><p>
  

And then Steve’s eyelids droop again, but he’s breathing regularly now, cheeks pink, lips red. Bucky can’t stop smiling, even as the tears keep pouring down his cheeks and he feels — 
</p><p>
  

Whole. 
</p><p>
  

He gathers Steve into his arms fully, and stands; looks arounds at everyone, scanning for injuries. His friends are battered, tired looking, but intact, coated in ashes as the Hydra continues to burn, only small, intermittent noises coming from it now. 
</p><p>
  

He shifts Steve, carefully. “I — <i>we</i> want to go home.” Sam nods with quiet authority, and for the second time, the group parts; strange, beautiful creatures, wrapped in magic and torn t-shirts, painted in blood and ash, and Bucky thinks, suddenly, that they are <i>more</i>, more and different, than him and Steve. 
</p><p>
  

This time though, there are no memories waiting for them, no red fire, nothing to remember. 
</p><p>
  

Bucky can see soft dappled light, coming from in between the trees; bare, scuffed dirt and cinders giving way to lush, emerald grass. He can hear the high trill of a bird, the rustle of underbrush, and he pulls Steve a little closer, glances down and squares his shoulders. 
</p><p>
  

Steve’s looking up at him. “Buck, let’s go home.” Bucky feels another smile, unbidden, unlooked for, and his chest feels tight, like it might burst, and he nods, not trusting his words. Steve smiles back, and <i>oh</i>, it’s like sunshine and razorblades, and it cuts Bucky open and heals him, warms him to the tips of his toes.
</p><p>
 
 
And Bucky walks into the sunshine, Steve in his arms, and he can feel his heart, whole in his chest, filling up the hollow place he’s carried for so long. 
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>
   
      <b>The End</b>

  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fic title and section titles are from Are We the Waiting by Green Day. </p><p>Some of Bucky's experiences here are based on my own with sleep disorders and fatigue, and not intended as commentary on any differing experiences. </p><p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/powercrow1">twitter</a> - I'm always down for questions, comments, and assorted stucky nonsense!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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